Niphredil
by GwennielOfNargothrond
Summary: Who is that mysterious Man and why does he grieve? Finduilas is drawn by Túrin in Nargothrond, however the mortal is followed by misfortune no matter where he goes.
1. In the Gallery

_This chapter was originally intended to be a oneshot, but I got inspired. It takes place recently after Túrin´s arrival to Nargothrond. It is the story of the beginning of his friendship with Finduilas, lady of Nargothrond. The friendship that almost turned out to be something else..._

_I don't own characters Tolkien came up with. _

* * *

_***Niphredil ***_

**In the Gallery**

Túrin stood silent and alone in the halls of Nargothrond. When was the last time he had smiled or felt joy? No idea. An eternity ago, maybe? He was deep in his thoughts still grieving for Beleg with no feelings to spare except for sadness. He thought about his life, his deeds and his doom. What wouldn´t he do to turn back time, go back to Beleg, or to his youth in Doriath - or better yet, to his childhood with his mother, his father and dear Lalaith. The time nothing of this had yet come to pass.

He heard light footsteps. Someone was approaching him in the corridor. Opening his eyes in order to forget his feelings he drew breath so that he could greet the daughter of Orodreth who seemed to want speak with him.

"Hello, Agarwaen," Finduilas said as she silently drew nearer. Túrin nodded in answer. Finduilas looked at him with a strange look on her face. "I am not disturbing you, am I?" she asked cautiously.

"No, my lady, you are not," Túrin said stiffly.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, quite so," Túrin lied. He could see that she didn´t believe him even if she said nothing. "I merely admired the works of art in this hallway. Very beautiful."

Finduilas smiled faintly. "Yes, I like them too. I come here often to just have a look at them."

They walked together in the hallway. It´s walls were covered with carvings, paintings and woven cloths. In stead of being hoarded deep within the dungeons they were at display in the many halls of Nargothrond. Many of them told tales of old; a painting described the bliss of Aman; a wooden carving told of the journey across Helcaraxë; and a sculpture there was of mighty Finrod Felagund.

Túrin pretended to look at the paintings with great interest, but in truth he hadn´t got rid of his dark memories. Often he thought he saw Finduilas observing him with a look mixed with concern and curiousity, but each time he glanced back she simply smiled briefly and looked in the other direction.

Then Finduilas stopped in front of one painting. It was her favourite painting and she bade Túrin to take a look at it. It was a big and beautiful painting portraying Beren and Lúthien in the forest of Neldoreth.

"You know, you look a bit like Beren," Finduilas remarked as she stood beside Túrin. "Are you two related?"

"Perhaps," Túrin replied ever so politely not wanting to reveal his ancestry. Finduilas seeing this changed quickly the subject and turned back to the picture.

"Look how detailed it is," she exclaimed. "You see every leaf in every tree, every star is unique, and those small white flowers - beautiful as gems. I wonder what they are named...?"

"Niphredil."

Finduilas looked at Túrin in surprise - maybe wondering how a great warrior, as strong and grim as he, knew the name of such a small flower. But Túrin´s mind had become flooded with with bittersweet,long lost memories from his childhood. He had suddenly remembered vividly a day long ago when he and Nellas, his friend, had walked in the woods of Doriath.

_ They had seen tiny white flowers growing by the path. He had asked what they were and Nellas had called them the Niphredil. "They grow where Lúthien Tinuviel danced." Her words echoed in Túrin´s ears. He remembered having asked her whether she thought this was the same spot where Lúthien had met Beren. She had laughed and said no. _

"It is Niphredil. The flower." Túrin said quietly. "It grows where Lúthien danced."

A gentle smile spread over Finduilas´ face. She was apparently impressed by Túrin´s knowledge. She turned towards him and looked into his grey eyes. Túrin swallowed trying to end the burning feeling in his throat. Her face was hardly seven inches from his.

"Would that i had a brother like you," she whispered. It was close that Túrin´s efforts not to let his emotions show had been in vain.

"Would that I had a sister like you," he sighed.

"Why do you never smile, Agarwaen?" Finduilas inquired.

"I never have a reason to do so," Túrin answered sadly. "I haven´t had a reason to do so for a long time..." he muttered. Finduilas looked at him filled with pity.

"Smile again, Adanedhel," she said "It is time to forget your troubles." She lifted her hand and gently, with a light touch her fingertip stroke the corner of his mouth as if drawing a smile upon his face.

Túrin looked into her bright eyes and at her lips that made hard things sound so easy. Finduilas smiled at him, and then Túrin felt his mouth broaden. He smiled. A real, genuine smile that lit up his face.

"You´ve got a beautiful smile, Adanedhel," Finduilas murmured as she stroked his hair and he felt as if he had a reason to smile again.


	2. Homecoming

_For this chapter I changed the rating from K+ to T, mostly just to be safe. I do not take credit for the characters or the content created by J.R.R. Tolkien._

_Reviews spawn new chapters :) And hopefully better chapters. *_

_Note: Agarwaen (son of Úmarth), Thúrin, Adanedhel among others are all names for Túrin Turambar._

* * *

**Homecoming**

He hurried through the hallways and rushed up the flights of stairs taking three steps at a time. He was eager to surprise his friend.

~o0o~

Finduilas sat in her chamber. She browsed through the pages of the book in her lap. Rather absent-mindedly. Her eyes scanned the letters on the leaves, but her thoughts were in a battle from which no tidings had come for several days. Nargothrond hadn't risked open war for a while - for over twenty years in fact - and this was the first battle following the new strategy. Gwindor probably thought she was anxious for her father, but it was the mysterious Man, born in the North, raised by Elves, and now a councellor of Nargothrond that she thought of. He was strong and grim with experience on war, surely he was able to take care of himself. But Agarwaen (or Thúrin, ´Secret`, as she called him) had become a good friend of Finduilas and she was fond of him. Often they had walked together in the halls of Nargothrond. He was a great listener and even though he didn't speak much the things he said were wise, and even in silence they shared an understanding. During his time in Nargothrond he had been almost healed of his depression.

When shutting her eyes she saw his image in ther head, and she didn't quite know why, but she felt that with him was bound the fate of a great change. Forr good or for bad, she did not know.

Great was her surprise when suddenly accompanied by a loud bang, the door to her chamber was flung open and in the doorway stood the person she was least expecting, yet most waiting for.

"Thúrin!" she cried ans she stood up from her seat. There he stood grinning from ear to ear, clad in dirty clothes carrying his helmet, his hair messy, and his boots muddy. He opened his arms and she rushed to him and - after a second's hesitation - cast herself around his neck. He hugged her back.

"I didn't expect you to come yet," she told him breathlessly. "How long is it since you came back?"

"Oh, I just arrived," he explained. "You didn't think I was dead, now did you?" he smirked.

"To be honest, not much at all. I knew you would win."

"If only you had seen us! Next time the orcs will avoid us at a great distance." Agarwaen said and a light shone in his eyes. He hated Morgoth with a passion. "King Orodreth says that soon the very name 'Black Sword` will keep them away from these regions."

"Black Sword," Finduilas repeated. "Is that you?" she asked remembering his jet black weapon Gurthang.

"Yes, they call me Mormegil on the front."

"Impressive!" Finduilas laughed.

"But when I came back I heard that you had been asking tidings. So I decided to come and bring them to you personally right away."

"So it seems," Finduilas grinned. "You still have your warclothing on you. Now that is no manner to rush into maidens' rooms," she scolded him.

"Pardon, my lady!" Agarwaen blushed. "Swords should be left outside... But if you will take my helmet, I'll tidy up myself." He placed his Dragonhelm upon Finduilas' head. She laughed and as Agarwaen attempted to smoothen his rumpled hair, she carried it away to a small endtable on which she had also thrown the book she had been reading. She placed a ribbon between the pages she had been reading so that she could continue there later.

"Ah, I'm afraid my clothes are just shaggy and torn," she heard her friend mutter in the background. "Alas, I am no elf."

Finduilas smiled to herself. "I haven't much tidings of what has befallen here at home," she turned to face Agarwaen, " - but..." she began but fell silent.

There stood Agarwaen and the sunshine streaming from the windows fell upon him. The light softened his weariness and the old shadows of grief on his face, and noble he looked standing tall and proud, yet kind and wise - as a young prince recently come into his full manhood: indeed the most beautiful of all mortal Men. His clothes were indeed shaggy; the sleeves were shorter than originally and the collar was torn down, baring his chest. Finduilas blushed deeply and lowered her eyes avoiding to look at his muscular being.

"But what?" Agarwaen said obliviously turning towards her. But his smile was replaced with an expression of concern. For Finduilas had suddenly become pale. Her face was ghostly white for as a lightning out of the blue she had realised what had hitherto been hidden in her heart. It came to her as a shock, but now it all seemed clear. Why else would she miss him so much, why else look forward to spend time with him, why else tremble at his touch or not be able to shut him away from her thoughts. Yet it seemed too unnatural and too wrong. _"Think of Gwindor, Finduilas. Gwindor!" _she commanded herself. But no._ "Stop this right now," _she begged.

"What is it? Finduilas?" Agarwaen stood now right in front of her. His eyes were frightened as he beheld the elf maiden who all suddenly had become so weak. He took her hands into his own.

"Why, you are shivering!" he exclaimed. "You need to rest!" he said as Finduilas nearly collapsed in his arms. He held up her and half dragged, half carried her over to the bed. "Wait here while I go and get someone," he gave orders. As if she could do anything else; she was barely conscious. "I'll soon be back. Do not despair, Finduilas." he whispered. "There's nothing to worry about." He stroke her brow and then left her room.

Tears dripped from Finduilas' eyes and she felt miserable.  
"Oh, Thúrin if you only knew!" she mumbled.

~o0o~

"She is exhausted," Faelon, the medicament elf, explained. Túrin, Orodreth and Gwindor listened solemnly to him. He had been examining Finduilas, and assured them that she would soon be better if she got some rest. "The reason to her fatigue I do not know, but as her family and close friends maybe you can guess it better But be careful if discussing it with her."

Túrin nodded. He wouldn't want to bring her more trouble. He had felt powerless and been shocked when she had fainted. Power in war, but misfortune elsewhere.

When Faelon had left them Orodreth sighed weakly and faced Túrin. "I am grateful that you could help her and bring her aid."

"It was nothing, my lord," Túrin said and bowed. "I fulfil my duty."

Orodreth smiled at him, nodded at Gwindor and then went to see his daughter. Gwindor looked after him thoughtfully. At last he broke the silence:

"What would you make out of this, Agarwaen?" and turned to him with a suspicious look.

"It is strange," Túrin said to him. "The moment before she was fine and then - suddenly she's not. Spiritually exhausted I think she is, but i fear that I do not know the reason..." He quieted.

"You do not," Gwindor repeated and looked him into the eyes. "I had hoped for you to tell me. Why was she suddenly shivering as a leaf in the wind? What did you even do in her room?"

"We were talking," Túrin answered. "As soon as I came from the battle I went to see her, then -"

"- you spoke,"Gwindor finished for him raising an eyebrow. "The reason for Finduilas' exhaustion is _you_." He looked at Túrin sternly but then his face saddened. " You do not know of her feelings, do you?"

"That she is your betrothed?"

"You haven't seen the way she looks at you." Gwindor answered. "She is exhausted because she's torn in her heart."  
With those words he left Túrin in his bewilderment.

~o0o~

* * *

_**Notes:** Yay you´ve read it! Reviews imrove my writing, and also make me update faster._


	3. A Torn Heart

_To OC Olwen who is the first one to add me into her Author Alerts. I am extremely honoured! :)_

_Dialogue is inspired by the ones in the books Tolkien wrote and although it is at times slightly altered I do not take credit for it or post it as my own! _

* * *

_**A Torn heart**_

"How are you?" Gwindor asked Finduilas. Quietly he slipped into her room. Finduilas sat in her bed. She gestured Gwindor to come to her. She smiled weakly but the smile didn't reach her eyes red from crying.

"I'm merely tired," she said. "Otherwise I'm fine." She stared sadly down at her hands and Gwindor looked at her in pity and sorrow.

"I think I know why you are exhausted," he said. It hadn't been very hard for him to guess. As if he wasn't good at seeing into people's minds Finduilas' ways had deceived her. He had seen her eyes stray away to the newcomer, he had noticed how she would lighten up when the Man spoke to her, and he had felt how her kisses were less passionate.

The Elf-maiden looked up. "Please, tell," she said.

Gwindor sighed. "Is it not so, Faelivrin, that you love me and do not wish to hurt me any more than I have already suffered. But even more than me you love Agarwaen even if you see that he doesn't answer to your feelings. The difficulty of choosing tires you. Wasn't it until now that you realised your true feelings?"

When Finduilas looked at him a tear rolled down her cheek and Gwindor knew he had hit near the truth.

"Young, handsome, strong, noble, wise, proud warrior. As Oromë himself," he said bitterly. "So unlike old Gwindor."

Finduilas sniffed and Gwindor put an arm around her shaking shoulders.

"Let no grief lie between us," Gwindor said gently "You still I love. But go whither love leads you. Yet beware: Agarwaen-Bloodstained son of Úmarth-Illfate is in truth Túrin son of Húrin and upon him and his kin lies the curse of Morgoth. The new name he has taken upon him isn't far from the truth."

~o0o~

Gwindor left Finduilas. Proudly she had declared that indeed she loved Túrin even if she didn't even notice it. She had admitted that she was ashamed of not loving Gwindor more.

"But I can no longer alter my feelings, as wrong as they may seem." A proud but a sad princess.

When walking in the hallway, Gwindor wondered all this. _Surely this wasn't meant to be?_ he thought. It was unlikely, but what if the love of Túrin and Finduilas was due to a fate designed by Ilúvatar as had been the marriage of Beren and Lúthien. _But how come then that Túrin was blind for Finduilas?_ In that case it was Morgoth to blame. If Túrin wouldn't go with Finduilas Morgoth would have his victory...

"Should I then give up her to him because it is the will of the One?" Gwindor spoke out loudly to the painting in front of him. Finduilas' favourite. He looked behind him in case that someone would have been listening. No one had and he turned back to the painting. Beren's eyes glimmered as he looked upon Lúthien. _That is not the look Túrin gives Faelivrin. His face is always so- expressionless. _Beren´s fingers were playing with Luthien´s raven hair even as they kissed and small flowers sprang at their feet. Niphredil, the flowers of forbidden love.

~o0o~


	4. A Matter of Truth

A/N: Sorry for a short chapter. Yes, some of this chapter's content might not be plausible if regarding "Morgoth's Ring"s essay _Laws and Customs Among Eldar _as the truth, but then again, Finduilas was very distressed and confused about her feelings, and it might have been a part of Morgoth's scheme. Hey, maybe it's a slightly AU, but this is how the story goes, however cheesy it would turn out to be. Please review if you haven't already.

* * *

**A Matter of Truth**

Túrin was glum and bitter. Why now, just as everything at last seemed to begin to work? Just as he thought his misery had been left behind. He had been a fool trying to find happiness in the first place. He had tried it before, and why would he succeed this time? But he shook of his pessimistic thoughts and feeling a bit guilty he opened the door just a crack. No answer. "Finduilas? Are you asleep?" he whispered.

"No... please, you can enter," Finduilas' voice was to be heard coming from the bed where she was hiding somewhere beneath the blankets.

"You have been brought flowers, I see," Túrin commented seeing a vase filled with lilies on the endtable beside the bed.

"My father brought them for me," a muffeled voice said beneath the covers.

"Should I have brought some, too," the man asked trying to ease the awkward athmosphere.

"No," came the answer.

He bit his lip. "Finduilas, what is the matter with you, are you hiding from me..?" He interrupted himself. Bad idea. "I should probably leave. Excuse me."

"No! don't," Finduilas' small hand reached at his arm. Her head emerged soon after: "I'm sorry, Agarwaen."

Túrin closed his eyes and sighed but sat down on the edge of the bed.

"What is it?" he asked the maiden whose head was no longer covered. "I don't want you to be sad."

The Elf adjusted her position. "Nothing," she muttred and sat up to be in eye-level with Túrin. After some hesitation she swallowed and said:

"Why haven't you told us your real name, Túrin."

"What?" A split second of puzzlement, another of shock. _She means Thúrin. She doesn't know my real name._

"Gwindor told me your real name... Túrin son of Húrin."

"He - NO!" Túrin stood up in wrath, but Finduilas who still held him pulled him down trying to calm him down. "Why? I gave you a fake name for a reason!" he spat. "Who is Gwindor to spread my identity; I told him to not tell it, but - "

"Túrin..." Finduilas tried to begin, but he interrupted her.

"No, don't call me that! It is no longer my name. I left it behind so that the curse wouldn't follow me."

"Túrin!" Finduilas shouted. He silenced ashamed and looked at her. Grief and pity shone from her eyes. She stroke his hand.

"I cannot..." he muttered grimly. "I have reasons not to use it. A curse haunts me, Faelivrin."

She said nothing nor did she lower her gaze, but looked him into the eyes. Túrin breathed deeply trying to calm down. All came down in ruin. His happines had collapsed once again.

"That curse is in you, not in your name," Finduilas whispered leaning nearer.

"Morgoth will find me by my name," Túrin protested. Finduilas shook her head her expression solemn.

She kissed him. Túrin was as starteled as if he had been hit instead of kissed. Finduilas drew back.

"I cannot," Túrin tried to explain. "If you love me you will become part of my curse."

"But then it is too late," Finduilas replied a tear shimmering in her eye. "I love you already."

Túrin stared at her and within him was a fierce battle of feelings. Loyalty, love, sorrow, anger, and pain. He loved her. And then he kissed her back.


	5. Promises and Denial

_I would like to thank both _Alexandra Nightshade_ and _Vergiss-mich-nicht_ for reviewing my fic. If you read this, I just want you to know that if it wasn't for your comments this chapter would not have been written. :-)_

_This chapter will include references to events more throughout described in "The Children of Húrin" by JRRT. Re-read it if you're confused._

* * *

**Promises and Denial **

Túrin stood in the by the window, He watched out at the plains across The River Narog. Birds soared in the sky and the clouds moved swiftly towards East.

He rubbed his chin as he contemplated. He had sought for peace and quiet, as he did not want any company. There were not many in Nargothrond whose company he enjoyed anyway; Gwindor seldom spoke to him anymore, the king was busy, and the one whose company he most of all would have wished for lay still in bed, resting. And it was of her that Túrin though of. Her condition made him at unease. Her feelings worried him slightly. But what confused him the most, were his own feelings and the fact that he had kissed her although he did not exactly know why. The fact that he had kissed Finduilas even though he knew he shouldn't have had, and even though he had promised not to even look at her way because of his so called "loyalty" to Gwindor. He despised himself for breaking that promise.

His peace and quiet was broken when an Elf arrived to tell him that Orodreth wished for him to come at once because of two guests and messengers who had just arrived at Nargothrond bearing an important message from Círdan. Túrin cast one last glance at the view through the window, then he followed the Elf.

~o0o~

"Morgoth's troops are coming," Túrin said. "That is one thing for sure and it has been a fact already for a long time. But I would not advise tearing down the bridge no matter what they say," he added referring to the words of Gelmir and Arminas, the messengers of Círdan, who had just been guided out of the room. Orodreth, contemplating the situation in silence, made no reply. Meanwhile Túrin paced back and forth: "The bridge has so far proved useful, and I daresay we will be able to keep the orcs away if we ambush them before they come too close."

"The troops of Morgoth..." Orodreth begun. "We have seen them before, and lately more often. But Círdan makes it seem as if this time Nargothrond stood in a real danger."

"How would Círdan know any better than we do, my lord?" Túrin asked curtly. "He has never faced the orcs the way we have. He lives further south and knows not of our problems."

"Because he might have received a word from Ulmo," Orodreth answered calmly, but his face was still sad. "I fear for Nargothrond, Mormegil. I fear for all the free peoples." He sighed. "Unless Finrod had left for his quest, I wouldn't even be a king. But now I am, and yet I stand utterly defenceless."

Túrin turned to face him. "You are wise, my lord. If your brother left you the throne, then he believed you good enough to be a king. Do not listen to people of the shores who think they know better. "

Orodreth raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you underestimate the Falathrim. Do not cast away all the counsel that is given to you in goodwill. Maybe Arminas had a point when denouncing your arrogance."

Túrin opened his mouth to answer him back, but hesitated. Then he bowed his head. "I am sorry, my lord. I should not have behaved like that in your presence."

Orodreth smiled gently. "It was all right, nothing too bad," he said. "And do not worry about your behaviour. You are the best counsellor that I've got, and I hold you in esteem for a reason." He stopped and looked at Túrin. "But lately I have noticed that you are somehow unfocused, somehow restless or maybe grieved, though I don't know why. Your mind is amidst a battle, but it is not our war, is it? What troubles you, if you don't mind me asking?"

The question caught Túrin unawares. He looked away, not to have to face the king. He hadn't thought the king had noticed his distracted mind, but he should have known by now that Elves have a tendency to notice things that mortals don't even know about. But of course he could not bear to answer truthfully. He had been unfocused ever since the unexpected revelations, ever since he had realised that Finduilas loved him and that he maybe - probably - loved her back. He could not explain the conflict his heart was in, still less what he felt for the king's daughter. Especially when he barely understood it himself.

He was spared from answering, though, because apparently Orodreth noticed his discomfort.

"Never mind that, Adanedhel. I should not have inquired," he apologised and smiled again. But the smile did not reach his eyes. He sighed again, and took off his slender crown as though it had been heavy. The young king looked so weary, and even when the light of the Trees was still in his face, the joy of Valinor was long since gone.

They both stood silent for a moment during which Túrin tried desperately to clear his head out of irrelevant thoughts. But that was harder done than said; Orodreth looked up and cleared his throat:

"I have a request for you," he begun slowly. "If a battle indeed draws near - as it seems to do - I put high hopes on you."

"I shall not fail you, my lord," Túrin replied.

"I know you won't. That is why I would ask this from you: I know you are a friend of my daughter..."

Túrin stiffened. "Indeed I am," he sad warily.

"If war comes," Orodreth said quietly, "promise me that you will protect her."

"Of course," Túrin replied. "But it is Gwindor who is her betrothed, not me," he added.

"I know," Orodreth said, "and I hold him in great respect. May he live long. But since his return... I don't think he can handle a sword as well anymore. His time as a warrior is over. That is why I would appoint you to guard Finduilas."

"I will do what I can," Túrin said. "I promise."

He would have protected her even if Orodreth hadn't asked him to. But now that he knew of what the king had said he felt as if he was betraying Gwindor even more.


	6. A Goodbye

_After struggling to write a chapter - I finally managed to produce something. Thank you, faithful reviewers. :)_

* * *

**A Goodbye**

The scout came back from the front with ill tidings. He glanced at his king and bowed his head before breaking the news: "The troops of Morgoth are stronger than was estimated."

Orodreth glanced Northwards where the fields of Tumhalad lied. "It is as we feared," he said to Turin. "We are too few. Are there still people in Nargothrond? Every one fitting enough to do the slightest battling has to be mustered if we are to win." Turin nodded.

"King Orodreth..." the messenger interrupted. "They are at least five times more than us..."

"So Morgoth has sent troops to vanquish all Beleriand..." Orodreth's voice was still calm, but he turned way and sighed. Again he looked so old... Turin watched his lord shake his head sadly. He wanted to say something comforting and inspiring...

"Vanquish or not," he said at last, "the end of this, will be worthy to be made into songs."

"Who will be left to sing them, Mormegil?"

"Courage, my lord. We have not lost yet."

o0o

Nargothrond was emptied. All that were able were to go to war, and near the Bridge of Narog great battalions were gathered.

Finduilas stood in the great halls of her father, anxious and very lonely. If the Nirnaeth wasn't counted, this was to be Nargothrond's greatest battle since Dagor Bragollach where she had lost two of her uncles. Finduilas was worried because of her father, who lately had been exceptionally serious and sparse in words, and when speaking it seemed as if he was foreboding something. She was also worried for Turin. More worried than she should have been, perhaps, but anxious that he would in battle take risks too great for him to handle. Turin was always so sure of his strategy, and Finduilas feared for his sake. She hadn't seen him for some days now, and would have wanted to speak to him - just to make sure he would be all right when he came home.

Becoming too troubled by her thoughts, she left the room to find Gwindor. He, she thought, would at least stay with her to hear the tidings from the front where everything would be decided. At least he would always stay with her.

But when she found him, he was standing in his armoury looking grim as if he was to go to war as well. Which she now realised he was going to.

"Gwindor!" she exclaimed, and he turned his head to look at her. "Where are you going?" she asked shocked.

"To battle," he answered. "Haven't you heard you father's summons? Every able man is needed..."

"...But you Gwindor," Finduilas said, desperation creeping into her heart. "My father did not expect _you_ to go to war. You can't even carry a shield anymore," she said pointing at his maimed hand, but immediately despised herself for saying it and hurting his feelings. But Gwindor merely shook his head. Finduilas felt as if she no longer had control over anything. She was now crying, tears running down her cheeks. "Do not go, Gwindor. Lest I lose you as well. Stay here instead."

"Faelivrin," Gwindor said, taking her into his arms as she was still sobbing. "I would feel ashamed to be left behind when everybody else goes off to protect our homes. I would be held in even less honour; I would fail your father; I would -" he looked sharply at the weeping elleth "- be nothing compared to the Adanedhel."

Finduilas wasn't easily dissuaded. Gwindor held her in his arms, kissing her forehead, but she cried still - maybe even harder after he had mentioned Turin. All her troubles, and all her tears that she had so far kept tightly locked inside her came now blurting out.

"I need you here," she mumbled into Gwindor's chest, but then she withdrew herself from his arms. "Go if you must, but go then without my blessing."

"Faelivrin, you said once yourself that I would yet one day be able to go to war," Gwindor begun. Finduilas nodded: she remembered that part. "And I replied that it won't be until the day when everything has been taken from me."

"Do not say so, Gwindor," Finduilas pleaded and wiped her eyes. "I still love you."

Gwindor nodded. "Yes," he answered somewhat unfathomably, then said nothing more and but stood in silence watching

Finduilas attempting to gather herself. Then the elleth swallowed and wiped her eyes again.

"I am sorry," she said. "I still love you. You have my blessing."

Gwindor kissed her one last time. Slowly and softly. Then he walked away. There was something ominous in the way he walked away from her. And somehow, when she later saw afar the last troops march to battle, Finduilas felt as it this had been a last goodbye.


	7. The Dragon's Entry

_Thank you again for your reviews and comments! _

_I hope you like this chapter, as well. I have little experience in writing war action, but I like how this turned out...  
__The battle of Tumhalad and The fall of Nargothrond will span two chapters._

* * *

**The Dragon's Entry**

Hordes of Orcs broke against the troops of Nargothrond. He was in his element - fighting, and not caring about the world outside the fight, because that could wait. The hill of Orcs he had already killed grew larger. He was a born warrior. Or rather he had been brought up to become one. He remembered distantly how he as a small child had told Sador Labadal that he would yet one day fight alongside Elven kings just as his father had; that was what he did now.

The Elven King he was fighting for this time was nowhere to be seen. Túrin thought he heard his voice shouting orders somewhere across the plain. The forces that Morgoth had sent were enormous, but the Orcs had yet to advance a great distance before Nargothrond would stand in real danger, so as for now there was no way of telling who would be the winner of the battle.

o0o

Orodreth's mind was like in a fuzz - the war seemed unreal and distant to him, and his battling was mechanic defending. Again he felt old and weary as he had lately felt all too often. Despite fighting valiantly and guiding his battalion with skill, he had a strange feeling upon him. When thinking about it, the nature of the emotion reminded him of what his brother Aegnor had described long ago. _"It is a foreboding," _he had said._ "When you go to battle and it has lost its glory; when the enemy no longer scares you; when you would stay home if it wasn't for the sake of what you love. When you are willing to make the greatest sacrifice of them all, because you know that in the end, you are just going to go home."_ In the next war that had hit Beleriand, Aegnor had died valiantly.

Orodreth felt as if he was soon to follow his brothers.

o0o

Gwindor would stay close to his King. He felt he was needed there more than far away on the other side. Also, he felt that if there was nothing else he could do for Finduilas, then could he at least - nothing to be compared to what he would have wanted to do - stand by her father in war. But Finduilas had partly been right when she had said he would not be able to fight well enough. He was nothing compared to Mormegil. But Mormegil was not here, but far away in another direction. Why did it had to have come to this; that the two of them - Gwindor and Mormegil - had become rivals, when they could had stood as brothers side by side on the battlefield?

As the battle continued and the Orcs but poured in, Gwindor's hope started to fail and he heard his King shouting orders of retreat. The ground was thick with mire and blood, and the corpses of Nargothrim. A retreat would enable the Elves to enforce themselves, but it would not be enough to stop the enemy.

The axes of the Orcs hewed the heads of their enemies mercilessly, but equally merciless were the Noldorin swords that drank the blood of the vile creatures. Even so, the plains of Tumhalad were yet to see its most merciless and brutal contestant. When a blow of warmth soared into the air, when the trees upon the slopes turned burned down and the Orcs gave way for the beast who contentedly spread destruction wherever it went, Gwindor knew that the power of Nargothrond was at its end. There was but one warrior on the battlefield who had the slightest chance of beating Glaurung, the dragon of Morgoth, and that wasn't Gwindor.

He turned back. Grieving for having to abandon his company and the King, he felt as if he wasn't needed here any more; he had not the power to fight a dragon - the skill needed was Túrin Adanedhel's alone. The only reasonable thing Gwindor had the slightest chance of succeeding in was to hurry to Nargothrond and Finduilas: her at least he would save - whether she loved him or not.

He was in such a hurry that he did not even notice when a large Orcs stepped in his way and drew forth its mace.

o0o

What few arrows that managed to get past the fire and the falmes could not pierce the armour of the Worm. Not even Túrin could stop the him. He had been in the opposite direction and thus too far away, and between him and Glaurung stood a host of Orcs he would have had to crash through before attempting to set the blade of Gurthang between its golden scales. Cursing the misfortune, Túrin killed more Orcs, but kept always an eye on the dragon that roamed in the distance.

The battle seemed to go on forever. Losses were great on both sides, but the forces of Morgoth were far more greater and most of Túrin's comrades were already gone. A miracle was the only thing that could have saved them from their situation, because their troops were quickly dwindling, and many of those who retreated died before reaching safety.

Then Glaurung turned its golden fiery eyes towards south. When Túrin saw it afar turn away from the battlefield and plough its way amidst the armies, he didn't at first understand why it seemed to retreat - but then he realised: it was on its way to Nargothrond. Far away on a hill he saw a lone rider with sword in hand stand up against the beast, but when the dragon breathed forth a bolt of fire the rider was cast off from his horse. Túrin watched in horror as the rider, now with a sword and a shield, defied the beast. The golden dragon dodged the furious blows of the sword and the swordsman stood no chance. With one last effort the warrior with the sword went for the dragon's front legs, but with a single spray of flames, the dragon defeated its enemy. The Elf fell on his knees and the shield with the royal emblem of the House of Finarfin with its snakes and crown glimmered one last time, before the light died away. The King was dead.

"Curse your name, Worm of Morgoth!" Túrin shouted after Glaurung, but if he got any reply it was but a scornful laugh.


	8. On the Bridge of Nargothrond

_Have been away fort some weeks - that's why there have been no updates. Anyway here's to you: a new chapter. As you notice they get grimmer and grimmer by each chapter. I doubt I'm done yet, but the story will soon come to an end, I think._

_As a disclaimer I'd like to point out that some of the text has been borrowed from Tolkien - more or less altered quotes - and I do not own them. _

* * *

**On the Bridge of Nargothrond**

The troops of Nargothrond were now leaderless and scattered across the plains with no hope coming. Now that Glaurung had killed the King he continued his way to the Fortress of Narog. It was then that Túrin definitely made up his mind - driven by an urge to revenge his Lord and all the Nargothrim that had died, he summoned all the energy he still had left, and pursued the dragon. Orcs that came in his way were stabbed down as he pushed his way through the mass. He ran as he had never before, with the speed of wind he sprinted across the plain, chasing the beast with wrath in his eyes. The nearer Nargothrond he came, the more Orcs there were, and the more wounded or dead corpses lied on the ground, and he took a detour through some other thickets to avoid the larger groups of Orcs. The nearer he came, the wearier he got, and resolution was the only thing that kept him going. There was nothing that could stop him. Or so he thought, because suddenly he halted. On the plain lied someone he thought he recognised.

"Gwindor?" he asked in surprise - almost fear. He turned away from the path and knelt beside something that looked like another corpse. "Gwindor! What are you doing here? I thought-"

"Mormegil Agarwaen..." Gwindor's voice was feeble and he spluttered blood from his mouth as he tried to talk. He clutched to his side in pain. "Mormegil, you have to go to Nargothrond."

Túrin nodded. He rolled his sleeves, and took hold of Gwindor.

"No," the Elf protested. "Do not carry me, it's no use. Just leave me."

"I can't leave you to die," Túrin said without heeding his words. "I won't." He bore Gwindor away from the worst danger, and laid him down on grass a bit further away and examined the wound. "If I managed to stop the bleeding..."

"You cannot save everyone, no matter how much you wanted," Gwindor mumbled wearily. "I thank you for trying to save me, but you're doing it in vain."

"But I love you as my own brother. You saved me!" Túrin retorted. "Remember?"

So much had come between them since. So much had changed when friends had become rivals and the stranger had won praise. And yet, Túrin could not just leave Gwindor to die; he would never forget how much he owed his friend and leaving him would have seemed like a betrayal. Despite everything that had come in between...

"I saved you, I did," Gwindor admitted. "And brought you here," he continued. "Might have been better if I hadn't, for now I have lost everything..." he spluttered blood again. "But if you really want to help... save Finduilas."

"She is yours," Túrin replied bowing his head.

"She might be happier with you, Adanedhel, as might you be happier with her," Gwindor said. "Go save her and protect her."

"Gwindor, you don't-"

"Mormegil! I don't know what yet lies before you, but it is something greater than any of us can foresee, and maybe greater than even you can bear. So leave me and go to Nargothrond," Gwindor pleaded. "Save Finduilas, and take her with you far away: she alone stands between you and your doom. If you fail her, it shall not fail to find you."

Túrin felt a burning behind his eyes. He stooped over Gwindor and kissed his forehead. "Farewell, son of Guilin."

A last shade of a smile lingered on Gwindor's face. He had calmed down, now that he had said his words to Túrin: "Farewell, son of Húrin," he replied. "Fare free." Then he said no more.

o0o

"I have to save her," Túrin thought. "I have to take her far away." That was what he had promised Gwindor he would. That was what Orodreth would have wanted; indeed what Túrin had said he would do. Túrin continued his hastening to Nargothrond, a cold rage burning inside him, and hot tears behind his eyes. Why was it that wherever he went misfortune would come. Had he stayed in Doriath things might have turned out better. Had he stayed in Doriath, he would have still roamed the forests and glades of Neldoreth with Beleg and Mablung. Or then he would have brought misfortune there as well, and the mellyrn and the sweet Niphredil would have been swallowed by the same flames that now pushed out through the windows of Nargothrond.

What was going on in Nargothrond was maybe the heaviest blow of the battle so far. By some other ways a large troop of Orcs had come to the caverns and were now destroying everything that had been and dragging out everybody who still were inside. Those who resisted were killed immediately, as were many else whom the Orcs did not want to take with them. Women and children wept as Orcs forced them to march onwards, and goods from within the palace were loaded on carriages that rolled over the bridge.

Túrin drew forth his sword. "For Nargothrond!" he roared loud enough for everyone to hear. "Come forth, Glaurung, you coward!" And again he ran, killing every Orc that stood in his way. He checked whether Finduilas was standing in the crowd of prisoners, but since she was not to be seen he continued his way into the castle. Past the Orcs, past the prisoners, onto the bridge pushing anyone who stood in his way into the icy cold water below. He was pursuing Glaurung, and Glaurung was whom he was going to kill.

And Glaurung came. Out of the very Halls of Nargothrond where he had been supervising the sacking. He stood by the doorway, a bit further away from Túrin, and watched gleefully as the mortal wore himself out from beheading Orcs. But even Orcs shunned Glaurung the Golden, and they sundered from the scene and left the him alone with the Man who apparently was to become the dragon's next prey.

Túrin pointed Gurthang against his enemy. "Curse you, Glaurung, thrall of Morgoth."

Glaurung laughed as he towered upon him. "Well met, son of Húrin. The rumours have not lied: you are indeed brave," he sneered in mocking respect. "But what else have the rumours told? All sorts of things. Say, are all those rumours true?"

Túrin bit his lip, and without fear, he looked stubbornly the dragon straight in its golden flaming eyes. The serpent-like eyes flamed and glimmered, and in them he saw his own reflection. The flames surrounded him, and the depths of the eye were like a well in which a stone had been cast.

Then Glaurung spoke with a voice more majestic and melodic than ever before: ""Thankless fosterling, outlaw, slayer of you friend," he taunted as his glance pierced Túrin's, but the Man could not turn away. "Thief of love, usurper of Nargothrond, captain foolhardy," he continued. "Deserter of your kin," he hissed. And to his horror Túrin saw that all those descriptions were true. Had he not left Thingol and killed Beleg? Had he not become the lord who had led Nargothrond to its ruin? _Deserter_, the word echoed in his mind and he loathed himself. Why was he so selfish when his dear mother and sister lived in thralldom far in the North?

But Glaurung smiled, because he knew his spell was working. "Glad may your father be to learn that he has such a son: as learn he shall."

Túrin felt as if his shame could have killed him. The disgust he felt to his deeds was so powerful that he hated himself, and everything he had ever done. Glaurung's words forced him to remember things he had forgotten or didn't want to remember. Painful memories of fleeing Doriath; of leaving Dor-Lómin; of his father going to war and of his sister's death. The small girl whom everyone had loved, whose scrawny body now lied in a cold tomb... why had he forgotten all that? Was his hideous deeds really how he repayed all the toil and misery that his mother was going through because of him? He hadn't realised it until now, but he indeed had a second sister - one he had never even met - somewhere up in the North, who, because of his selfishness, was probably to die as well. His guilt was beyond describing and it tore his heart so much he thought he could burst, but he could not do anything - not even move - because his will-power was gone as the dragon held his mind in its possession.

As he stood in his horror, more prisoners from Nargothrond were lead by. The Elves in bondage saw Túrin stand by the bridge, sword hanging in his limp hand. They shouted his name and begged him to help them, but as he did not even look at them, they cried because they did not understand what had happened to him - all they knew was that no hope would come.

Even Finduilas was led past him. Her gown was scarred and torn and bruises coloured her skin.

"Thúrin!" she cried when she saw him, not caring of the Orcs that yanked her bonds harder to keep her following. "Thúrin!" she called again, tears running down her cheeks. She reached out her arms and tried desperately get his attention. "Túrin Mormegil, it is me, Finduilas! Do not look at the dragon!" But her voice broke and the Orcs ordered her to keep walking. She broke down in hysterical tears and some other prisoners tried to comfort her and drag her with them so that the Orcs wouldn't have to use their spears. But even so, all the hope of Nargothrond was gone.

What Nargothrond? Nargothrond was no more.

o0o

Long time after the noise of the Orcs and their prisoners was gone, when air had stilled and the air cooled down and the blood in the waters of Narog had washed away, Glaurung finally turned away his gaze. Túrin woke up startled as if after a long and horrible nightmare. The sun was rising, and as he looked at it the light and the fresh air flowed back into his lungs. But the bitter grief lied still in heart. He looked down at his bloodstained hands and his darker-than-coal sword.

"Why did I ever leave the woman who loved me more than anyone else?" he stammered aloud. Glaurung looked at him with an almost quizzical expression. "Why did I desert the land that needs me?"

He wiped his hands in his cloak, and put his sword back in its sheath hanging in his belt. "I have to find Morwen," he muttered, but a golden gleam shined in his normally grey eyes - the seed of lies and madness had sprouted. And the dragon that had planted it bared its teeth in a foul smile as the Man turned away and set out on a fool's errand that would but lead him further away from deliverance.


	9. Prisoners

_You have had to wait patiently for my updates, I'm afraid. Here's a new chapter, though. _

_In a way I am relieved that I will finally complete this fic (one more chapter to go), but in a way it's bittersweet to say goodbye. Don't fear, my friends! I just might write something more about Túrin if I get inspired enough. _

* * *

**Chapter 8: Prisoners**

Her shoes had been torn long time since. Her feet bled. She and her miserable company were dragged along by the Orcs.

Nothing that Finduilas had ever experienced could be compared to this: the prisoners of Nargothrond were forced to keep on marching Northwards, and those that lagged behind or attempted any kind of resistance were mercilessly slain right on the spot.

It was already a few nights after the fall of Nargothrond, and the Orcs had come all the way to the woods located near Brethil. As the dawn would soon be at hand the Orcs halted and a few of the captains argued about where to stay during the hours of Sun. It was winter, so the Sun would not trouble them for too long, but as the company slowed their pace, their prisoners had time to draw some breath, and Finduilas managed to eavesdrop some parts of the Orcs' conversation.

"Can't stay here," a big Orc grunted. "Filthy mortals live in those woods," he said and nodded towards a forest nearby the large glade they had stopped by.

"Y'are afraid of mortals?" another Orc taunted him. "Beats me why y'are a capt'n."

The first Orc spat at the second one: "If ya die with a dagger in yar throat, it's not my fault. The Lord won't be pleased it we mess it up b'cause ya didn'a listen to me: those mortals are a threat."

A slight hope kindled in Finduilas' heart: if Men lived nearby, maybe they would all be saved. Maybe, maybe... "_Maybe they know Thúrin..._" she thought. Then her hope died when she remembered what had happened to Thúrin. Why had he just stood there on the bridge doing nothing when his help was needed the most? "_He is probably already dead,_" Finduilas thought sadly. "_The dragon held him there and killed him, after we had gone._" She wiped her brow and some stray hairs from her face. She wished her father would have been with her. Or Gwindor... They would have - no, wait: they were dead as well.

It felt yet too unrealistic for Finduilas to realize that Nargothrond was gone and the bodies of all its people laid defiled in the mires of the battlefield. That her father was with Mandos, as was Gwindor.

"Would that he had not left me, too," Finduilas mumbled. She had been sure that Gwindor would stay with her and not go to battle, but he had wanted to help in the war - in the end he couldn't do much to prevent Nargothrond's doom.

"Ya walk under the Light, then," the second Orc snarled. "But if anyone attacks us in the Light-time..."

Finduilas continued to listen to the Orcs argue as more of them joined the debate. They never got to an agreement before a small noise was heard from the woods closest to the encampment. The Orcs fell silent and turned to face the direction of the disturbance that was now nowhere to be heard. The prisoned Elves turned to listen, as well. Whispers rustled among them: maybe someone had come to save them.

"Maybe it's a patrol of Doriathrim," an elf whispered to Finduilas. She nodded, but thought to herself: "_Or maybe it is Mormegil who finally comes to us at our direst need._"

But now the cracking noise from the woods was gone. However, the Orcs started cautiously prepare themselves to leave.  
"Get those Elf-maggots," a commander told some Orcs of lesser rank, who immediately started yanking the ropes around the prisoners. But the thought of potential rescue had given hope to the Elves and several of them tried to stay, eyeing hopefully at the woods.

Finduilas was one of them. She stretched her neck, trying to see or hear whether the unknown people might come out of the forest. "_It's probably not Thúrin after all,_" she thought but wished still it would be somebody of his kin, although, of course, any help was welcomed.

"Come prisoners, and do as y'ar told!" The yells of the Orcs echoed in the glade as the killed several Elves to scare the others to keep on moving. One Orc unsheathed his sword and took a step towards Finduilas, who had been listening to the forest, but now twisted around to look at her captor. "You too," the Orc said, and poked at the ground in front of Finduilas' feet with the tip of his sword. But the Elf took a step backwards.

The Orc snarled at her: "Ya think ya'll have special treatment if y'ar a princess? I am Naglash, and I don't suffer any foolin' around." He raised his hand to give the maiden her deathblow, but when he swung his weapon Finduilas ducked quickly and avoided the hit, but fell to the ground. The Orc frowned at her and raised its hand again as Finduilas shut her eyes and prepared to die.

But before Naglash's weapon had fallen, an arrow came flying through the air and hit his arm. As the Orc dropped the sword and cried in pain, several arrows more came flying from the direction of the forest. Orcs started wildly defend themselves and keep their prisoners in line, but the Elves defied the Orcs. They shouted in joy as the arrows continued to hit the Orcs, and knew that some mysterious persons in the forest were indeed on their side.

Finduilas - still kneeling on the ground - crept sideways and could not comprehend what had happened. She had really no plan, except to get away as soon and as far as possible. "_To the Mortals in the forest,_" she thought. She ducked away from flying arrows, sneaked behind Orcs, and when she thought nobody was looking, she set out for the woods. She took a route around the field - to avoid the battle. She didn't stay to see what happened with the other Elves, though. Had she done that, she would have seen her friends meet a dreadful end: as the Orcs were attacked, the captains' concern was that the prisoners would slow down the retreat or betray them to the enemy. While some Orcs were still shooting arrows back to the forest, others had started beheading Elves. The glade echoed with shrieks of horror as the ground was dyed red.

Finduilas leaned against a tree. She breathed deeply and stood silent. She was by far safe, but she could at the moment get no further. The real places for hiding, with bushes or rocks, weren't close enough to get to fast enough, because the tree she was currently behind stood near the edge of the glade, but still on an open ground, so that she was afraid she would be seen if she attempted to escape. In fact, it was amazing she had got even this far. "_Would that I'd make it out of this alive,_" she prayed. Then she opened her eyes again.

When she eyed at the bushes at the edge of the forest she saw a person. The person stood there with a bow in his hand and a knife in the other. It was a rather young Man, his chin covered by a short beard, and a grey hood covering his brown hair. He stood there, one hand half-uplifted and for a moment he looked as if he was going to say something.

"Who are you?" he seemed to mouth. Just as Finduilas was going to say something, the Man's eyes widened, and quicker than a snake he lifted his bow and shot two arrows. They swooshed right past Finduilas' head and she crouched in surprise and fear. But they hadn't been aimed at her but at Naglash. Alive enough for walking and talking he had secretly limped up behind Finduilas with a ruddy spear in his hand. But both arrows that the Man had shot missed the actual target. The Man shot again, but Naglash was already behind Finduilas. As the Elf saw the Orcs, she let out a yelp in shock, and tried to run towards the forest, towards where the Man stood.

The third arrow hit Naglash right in the chest. He halted and swayed on his feet. With his last powers he raised his hand, and before falling dead onto the ground he let his spear soar. It flew through the air -

Finduilas heard the Orc get hit, and even when running she glanced behind her, to see her enemy fall. But when turning her head, her feet stumbled on a stone, and she fell helplessly. As if in slow motion, she reached towards the trunk of a tree - a tree? That meant she had finally reached the edge of the forest. Her hand grasped the tree trunk to keep her from falling down... but it was not the tree trunk that kept her up. It was the spear that had left Naglash's hand and now impaled her body that pinned her up against the tree.

Blood rushed into her head and out of her stomach. No voice of speech got through to her ears, but somewhere far away she heard an echo of someone shouting. Her thinking was groggy and thick, but the pictures in her head clear. She was dying. She would go with her father and Gwindor who were dead also. With her uncles, with her... Thúrin was not yet dead. That suddenly seemed for her to be the clearest of all.

Through the mists in her eyes she saw somebody kneel beside her. It was the Man that had fired the arrows. The Man that had tried to save her. He looked at her with kindness, pity and concern.

"Mormegil," Finduilas whispered to him and he raised an eyebrow. "Tell the Mormegil that Finduilas was here." She could think of nothing else to say. Somehow at that moment it felt important for her that Thúrin would know where she was - just in case he would follow her after all. Ah foolery, why would he? He had not listened to her at the Bridge of Nargothrond. Finduilas opened her mouth one last time, maybe to thank the Man that she still had no name for. But no words came from between her lips, only a deep sigh as her last breath was lost into the chilly air.

The Man continued to look at her. Ashamed of that his troop had not intervened earlier. Desperate that this maiden had died even after his efforts. Sad that so many Elves had been killed in the battle. It was the first time the Man saw Elves this close and he was sad that he should now see them dying like that, in a gruesome massacre. Somewhere further away, the Man's comrades were still trying to rescue some remaining surviving Elves. But Dorlas didn't go to them. He sat still by the unmoving body. Had she asked him about Mormegil the Great Warrior of South? Did she know Mormegil? Dorlas closed Finduilas' eyelids gently and pulled the spear out of her body. He knew nothing of this maiden, save her name, and that she was important to Mormegil.


	10. Healed Twice

_I am sorry for that this last chapter is so short although you have had to wait so long for it, but this Epilogue was never supposed to be of full length, but more like a short draft, such as the first chapter was - the first chapter I wrote over a year ago... I am quite sure there will be no continuation, at least not another multi-chapter, unless I one day suddenly get an inspiration boost. ;)_

_I thank you for all the reviews and comments you have sent and for having read this fic to its bittersweet end. _

* * *

**Healed Twice **

Túrin walked behind the stranger. The stranger who had buried Finduilas. Why had she been buried by a stranger and not her own people? Why had she had to have been buried at all?

When they came to a glade, the stranges stopped. Without a word or any change in expression, he gestured towards a tree. And when Túrin looked, he saw at first nothing but the tree, some grass and moss and other vegetation, nothing out of the ordinary. But when he looked again, he realized that by the tree there was a mound. A small mound, dug and covered a while ago, with small pale flowers growing on it, weaving a net of petals and leaves. Túrin said nothing. He looked at the mound and then at the stranger.

"This is..?" he said, his voice raspy after the silence.

The stranger nodded solemnly. "I buried her on the spot she died."

"Was she alone when..?"

"Well...I was with her. But her people were all further away."

So she had not died deserted, but somehow alone nonetheless. Túrin bowed his head. Had he not been such an idiot, he could have saved her, or if he had failed in that, he could have buried her by himself. Thus she would not have been deserted by the one she counted on the most, the one who had been supposed to protect her.

The memories flooded his mind yet again, coming back as nightmares. Orodreth had asked Túrin to protect her, but he had failed him. Gwindor had begged him to save her, but he had been unable to. She had cried for him to come to her at the hour of her need, but he had been deaf to her pleas.

And yet, he himself had once sworn to himself that Finduilas was the one he would guard. There were, apparently, no oaths he could keep.

The stranger backed away, letting Túrin mourn in peace. Túrin took a few steps forth. Somehow, as in a dream he walked to the mound, where he halted and stood still, staring at the grave before him.

"I came too late. Forgive me, Finduilas," he said. No tears did he cry, but he stood stiff, staring blindly. Again his foul deeds reeled before his eyes, as if Glaurung's lies had yet again tormented him into madness. His betrayal, his lies, his murders, his disloyalty... And last of all, he saw in his mind the death of Finduilas. The spear darting through the air, the leer of the Orcs, the scream of the Elf as she fell onto the ground, blood staining the ground. The sickening feeling brought him down, and before he knew, he stooped onto the ground, hitting the mound, falling as one drugged to sleep or slain to death.

_"She alone stands between you and your doom: if you fail her, it shall not fail to find you."_

_"I have failed her. So doom; come and take me - I am thine." _

Amidst his nightmarish dream, a sweet fragrance reached his nostrils. He could not by any means place the smell into a context, despite its familiarity. With the images of blood, fire and a dragon in his head, the sweet fragrance was from some other world, from some imaginary - or forgotten - past. But the more he wondered about the smell, the stronger it became, and the fainter did the memories of darkness become. Still lying on the ground, he could feel the scent coming from the ground underneath him. 'Some strange flowers,' was the last thing he could remember.

Later, when Túrin had been physically healed by the Master of Brethil, he returned to the mound, because it was as if something drew him there. He stood by the edge of the glade, contemplating, not quite daring to go to the mound itself. But at last, he walked up to the mound. Examining the ground he now saw again the small pale flowers that grew on the rich soil upon the spot where Finduilas now lied.

And yet again memories flooded him. As the waters of Lake Ivrin, the scent of the flowers cleared him of his tormenting memories, and for the first time for long did he remember.

The woods of Doriath, his time with Beleg and Nellas, Thingol and Melian. Green leaves, endless days, a life without the grieving.

"_Niphredil_," he mumbled, echoing words from the past. "_It is Niphredil - the flower._"

But why did it grow here? He had no idea of how it might have ended up in Brethil. He looked around himself, but the plant grew solely near the mound.

The thought of Niphredil growing there solaced him immensely. With Niphredil was bound everything that had been good, ever since he had left his home: Doriath, Beleg, Nargothrond... Finduilas...and now Brethil. Maybe this was a sign?

"You alone stand between me and my doom. I failed you, so doom will find me - but you guard me still. If doom finds me, mayhap I shall master it. I am Turambar, Master of Doom."

Then he bent to the ground and kissed it. The sweet fragrance met him with its soft touch.

"Smile again, Adanedhel," it whispered.

_The End_


End file.
